


Packing a Bag of Bad Ideas

by sootandshadow



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Abuse of poetry, Canon-Typical Violence, Incest, It's not getting resolved in this sorry lads, M/M, Nero has a nipple piercing, NeroV Week, Parent/Child Incest, UST, technically anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootandshadow/pseuds/sootandshadow
Summary: But it’s not that part that unsettles him. No, it’s the fact that when V meets his eyes Nero feels like he’s staring at a fellow predator, like V is...appraisingall those sharp and dangerous parts of him.  And sometimes, when his lips twitch upwards in a ghost of a smile, Nero almost thinks that V ispleasedwith what he sees there.Now, though, he just looks confused, a faint wrinkle to his brow and his head tilted not entirely unlike the avian creature he carts around with him. There’s nothing about his expression that suggests he even heard Nero’s question, which only serves to ratchet his irritation up another notch. He’s about to tell him to take a picture when V actually sets his book aside to properly engage him, his eyes drawn to something on Nero’s--Oh.Aw shit





	Packing a Bag of Bad Ideas

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [В омут с головой (Packing a Bag of Bad Ideas)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20134117) by [FantikBantik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantikBantik/pseuds/FantikBantik)



Sometimes this demon hunting business could be a real bitch, Nero thinks darkly as he scrubs more goops of Lusachia sludge out of his hair, trying to ignore the way his stomach turns at the feel of it in his fingers. He’s used to a certain amount of mess; it comes with the job description, after all. Demons, by nature, are made of up of grotesque body parts that like to ooze and drool, so it only makes sense that when he stabs, shoots, and smashes them to pieces that he wears a fair amount of gore in the process. There’s a kind of dangerous thrill to it all, compounded by the hot spray of blood and guts across his face when he thrusts his Red Queen into some poor sucker’s throat or jams Blue Rose into a gaping mouth and pulls the trigger. 

But this? This a whole new kind of disgusting and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel clean again. 

Giving himself a shake, he feels a bit better when the water sliding down his body starts to run a little cleaner. Nico's going to bitch at him about clogging the system with his “nasty ass demon gunk” - and for using all the hot water again - but Nero is willing to endure her complaints for this. A few more rinse-lather-repeats and he’ll feel like a human being again. 

(Or at least, as much like a human being as he ever does.) 

Nero finally emerges from the van’s cramped shower in a cloud of steam, not expecting to find V lounging near the couch - because God forbid V did anything normal like sit on the furniture. He’s got his nose buried in that cryptic book of his again, though for once his familiars are noticeably absent. Nico seems to be occupied elsewhere as well, which makes Nero feel a little less self-conscious about the way he clutches his towel around his waist with his remaining hand. Privacy is basically nonexistent in this hunk of junk they call their “mobile operation”, but he still tries to keep some semblance of it wherever he can. Having V lurking around is kind of putting a damper on things, but Nero figures their guest has little interest in ogling naked bodies. That would be far, far too _mundane_ for the likes of V. 

He’s halfway through trying to figure out the logistics of getting his boxers on without dropping his towel - a tricky prospect with only one arm - when he feels the prickle of V’s eyes on him, his scrutiny as palpable as ever. Nero tries to ignore the way it makes something inside of him stir, like a sleeping beast slowly rousing, intrigued by whatever it senses in that smokey gaze. Squashing down his inner devil only leaves more room for agitation to bubble to the surface though, and he scowls before he realizes he’s doing it, tone more defensive than he means it to be. 

“What? I got something on my face?” 

It shouldn’t bother him anymore; after all, he knows what it’s like to be stared at. The people of Fortuna had never had any qualms about doing it openly, even when he’d been a child. He was intimately familiar with a full range of negative expressions; disdain, fear, even disappointment when people had actually expected something of him. It hadn’t taken him long to ignore the people who looked at him like that, to toughen his skin so he didn’t care what anybody thought about him. (That was a lie. He cared. He cared too much and it still made him burn with frustration and heartache when he let people down. When he wasn’t _enough_.) 

But, to be fair, he also knew what it was like to be looked at with pride, with love. He still remembers that tiny glimmer of satisfaction in Credo’s eyes when he’d done well in the Order’s training exercises, surprising everyone but his adopted brother. Nero cherishes that memory like he cherishes the way Kyrie smiles at him when they manage to make time to share a meal together. Kyrie’s expressions are always so gentle, so loving, even when she sees the darker parts of him that he tries to keep secret. Humans are like that though; they love dangerous beasts despite their fangs because they believe they’ll never get bitten. Nero’s still not sure if he deserves that kind of faith; even so, he can’t help but bask in the fondness of her gaze whenever he catches her looking. 

And then there’s V, whose stare carries neither a wealth of affection nor any obvious aversion. While there is certainly judgement in his eyes - a state that Nero has come to realize is just part of his whole haughty and mysterious persona- the looks he gives Nero merely tease the edge of patronizing. (His confidence is a little enviable for such a scrawny man carrying nothing but a cane.) But it’s not that part that unsettles him. No, it’s the fact that when V meets his eyes Nero feels like he’s staring at a fellow predator, like V is... _appraising_ all those sharp and dangerous parts of him. And sometimes, when his lips twitch upwards in a ghost of a smile, Nero almost thinks that V is _pleased_ with what he sees there. 

Now, though, he just looks confused, a faint wrinkle to his brow and his head tilted not entirely unlike the avian creature he carts around with him. There’s nothing about his expression that suggests he even heard Nero’s question, which only serves to ratchet his irritation up another notch. (God, he hates being ignored by the collection of egotistical assholes he’s somehow managed to surround himself with.) He’s about to tell him to take a picture when V actually sets his book aside to properly engage him, his eyes drawn to something on Nero’s--

Oh. _Aw shit_

“I don’t suppose _that’s_ another one of Nicoletta’s creations?” 

Nero fights a losing battle against the blood rushing to his cheeks, clutching his towel more tightly if only because he can’t fold his arms over his chest. Not that that would have made any difference. V’s clearly seen the thin, silver ring pierced through his left nipple, the light glinting off the metallic edges and its tiny ball bearing. Nico, naturally, had given him shit for a whole week when she’d found out about it, ribbing him incessantly. She’d wanted to know who did it ( _none of your business, that’s who_ ), how much he’d cried ( _fuck you, not at all_ ), and whether Kyrie knew about it ( _of course she did!_ ), among a slew of other questions. He had thought he’d never have to deal with that kind of scrutiny ever again. Then again, he hadn’t thought he’d be half-naked in their mobile office with a strange man trying to save the world from a demon tree. God, Nero’s life was a mess. 

He sighs with more force than necessary, deciding that it’s best to just get this over with sooner rather than later. It’s not the conversation he wants to be having in nothing more than a towel, but he suspects that V isn’t the type of person to just let things go. With an air of nonchalance, he gestures with his chin towards his chest. 

“This? Hell no. I can’t believe you dress like you robbed a Hot Topic and have never seen a nipple piercing.”

V’s answering hum is low, almost thoughtful as he finally looks away from the ring, and Nero is not expecting to see something intent and hungry in his eyes. “There are many things I have yet to experience.” He sounds almost _distracted_ and, judging by the way his eyes keep darting down to the metal on Nero’s chest, Nero has a pretty good idea what’s eating him. This is a new look on V and Nero can’t help but feel a little too big for his skin, off-balance and suddenly on edge. Why is he looking at him like that? And why does it make Nero’s tongue feel heavy and clumsy in his mouth? He wrinkles his nose, tries for his usual acerbic dismissal. 

“I’m not taking you to get one if that’s what you--”

He stops abruptly when V steps closer, the proximity making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his fingers itch for one of his weapons. The air in the van feels suddenly too hot, oxygen-deprived in a way that makes Nero really want to crack a window or something so he can breathe a little easier. (Had the shower always made it this humid? If so, they really needed to get the air circulation looked at.) The threat of something he can’t put his finger on tickles at his instincts like a trapped sneeze, but Nero refuses to back away, brow pinched in defiance. 

For some reason, this only seems to make V smile as he sets his cane aside, now close enough to touch. 

“I have no desire to get my own. But I would examine yours, if you would allow me?” 

“What?” Nero replies stupidly, only to wince once the question leaves his lips. _Damnit. Real smooth, Nero_. V’s smile turns indulgent, but the interest in his gaze remains the same. 

“To sate my curiousity, nothing more. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

That faintly mocking edge to V’s voice evaporates all of Nero’s burgeoning embarrassment and replaces it with a familiar hot surge of irritation. Trust V to make his request sound like Nero isn’t tough enough to handle it, like he doesn’t have what it takes. He knows he’s being played, but that doesn’t stop him from raising his chin challengingly, his lip curling into a sneer. “Come on then. What are you waiting for?” Had he not been preoccupied with keeping his towel where it was he would have crooked a finger at V, an invitation of sorts, as if this whole thing had been his idea in the first place. 

Even without the gesture, his words are apparently all the permission V needs. His next step brings him so close that Nero is intimately aware of their differences in height, particularly since he’s not wearing his boots. It doesn’t stop him from holding V’s stare, continuing to look at him as V’s smile becomes a smirk and his gaze moves southward. The artificial light does nothing for V’s complexion, the man as pale as they come and made even paler by the stark tattoos inked into his skin. Like this, Nero swears he can see them move, slithering along his skin like living tendrils, tiny little flecks of black magic rising up like dust motes as they do. It’s oddly mesmerizing, attractive in a way that Nero hadn’t considered before. Idly, he wonders if V would let him touch the marks; a tit-for-tat, so to speak. 

“ _In what distant deeps or skies, burnt the fire of thine eyes?_ ” V recites, his quiet voice breaking the silence, dark in a way that makes something in Nero’s insides tremble. It’s not the first time he’s heard poetry come out of V’s mouth, but it’s the first time it’s ever been delivered directly at _him_ , whispered like a secret in their shared air. Nero catches a glimpse of his pink tongue when he wets his lips and it makes his heart pound painfully in his chest, inextricably drawn to V in the same way V seems to be drawn to him. The permission to examine him seems to have only increased V’s hunger, pupils so blown that Nero cannot look away. 

Nobody has ever looked at him like… _this_ , whatever _this_ is, and while Nero flounders in a sea of unfamiliar feelings V surges on ahead, raising one hand with the gravitas of a king. “ _On what wings dare he aspire? What hand, dare seize the fire?”_

He has a witty comeback in there somewhere, something sharp and derisive, but one of V’s tattooed fingers is sliding down his Adam’s apple and when he swallows against the faint pressure his quips vanish as well. V’s skin is cool against his own; Nero’s not sure if it’s because of the shower or just a difference in their core body temperature. His fingertips are distractingly soft too, like he’s not done much by way of manual labour, and while it doesn’t surprise Nero it does make him shiver. V’s attention, too, seems to gravitate to the places where they’re connected, fingers lingering in the hollow of Nero’s throat, caressing. When his fingertips splay at the edge of a collarbone he trembles, every so slightly, and Nero eats up the faint reaction he didn’t know he was looking for. 

V _likes_ this, seems enraptured by it in a way that Nero hadn’t expected. Then again, V was so quick to manipulate his environment with that damn cane of his that Nero can’t help but wonder how many people he’s actually touched like this, skin to bare skin. Maybe Nero is his first; for some reason, the thought sends a kind of possessive thrill up the length of his spine. Perhaps it is the notion that he might finally have some sort of power over the man who seems to have all the answers. Perhaps he just likes knowing that V is as affected by this as he is. Either way, he tries to bite back a fierce grin, but something must show on his face, in his body language, because V’s eyes darken almost imperceptibly when they meet his own pale ones. He curves his fingers so it’s his blunt nails not-so-gently raking down Nero’s chest, maintaining the eye contact, and Nero’s whole body feels like it’s on fire. The way V watches him only serves to rev his desire even more and _oh_ \-- that’s---

It hits him like a right hook to the gut from one of his Punch Lines, the realization that this new look of V’s is _lust_ , and Nero can practically feel the blood rushing towards his cock. It twitches, starting to swell beneath the worn fabric of the towel, and though he doesn’t see V look down Nero swears he knows, swears he can somehow smell the arousal rolling off Nero in waves. The fact that V appears to be similarly interested is a minor consolation. (It doesn’t seem to stop his recitation of poetry, at any rate.) 

_”And what shoulder, and what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart?”_

Nero’s heartbeat roars in his ears when V takes the thin metal of his piercing between his index finger and his thumb, hyper-aware of every touch, every unintentional movement of silver through flesh. He had been peripherally aware of its sensitivity - the healing had been a bit of a bitch - but he hadn’t gotten the nipple ring to play with it. V isn’t even doing anything particularly strenuous, just holding it really, but even that sensation is enough to make him squirm, toes curling against the van floor. It’s _good_ and the part of him that manages his regrets is warning him to stop this now before he does something embarrassing but V-- 

V’s got his finger hooked in the ring now, crooking it, the gentlest of tugs, yet it feels like there’s a direct line between his nipple and his cock and it _aches_ so sweetly. Of course V knows, can smell weakness a mile away, and of course he exploits it even as his voice dips to a barely audible whisper, _”And when thy heart began to beat…”_ They’re mere inches apart now, Nero’s body leaning towards V without any conscious effort on his part while V keeps them linked with the faintest of touches. He pulls again and Nero can’t help the soft noise of pleasure he makes, voice betraying him even more than his erection, which has no qualms about making itself known now that V is touching him like that. Fuck. _Fuck._

If he hadn’t been so caught up in the undertow of his own _wantneedfuckmore_ Nero might have had enough sense left to be mortified. He does, at least, manage to bite his bottom lip in an attempt to stop any more sounds from breaking free, locking eyes with V once more as he does and shuddering all the way down to his core at the expression on his face. Even in the shitty lighting he can see the faint flush in V’s cheeks, the way he practically devours Nero’s reactions with his eyes like he intends to burn them into his memory. He opens his mouth, to finish the poem or ask Nero something or, fuck it, who cares, Nero’s going to beat him to the punch and tell him to stop screwing around and-- 

There’s footsteps and a loud, familiar whoop from outside the back window and Nero flinches, trying not to think too hard about how the unexpected jerk to his nipple ring makes his cock throb. Nico’s clearly back, the sound of her ramblings enough to shatter their moment, and Nero doesn’t know if he’s supposed to feel frustrated or relieved. V, at least, has the good sense to let go of Nero’s nipple ring when he steps away, though not before fixing him with one of his looks, a little bit coy and a little bit too pleased with himself. He brushes past Nero like he hadn’t just been making Nero question his sexuality and settles himself on the edge of the couch, producing his book from nowhere and opening it to a fresh page. 

“I suggest you make yourself more presentable before our esteemed chauffeur arrives,” he suggests, so casually that Nero almost growls as he turns to face him. The slide of the towel against his erection stops him dead in his tracks, the spark of pleasure muted by the hot flush of embarrassment when he remembers his current predicament. The increasing volume of Nico’s voice is enough to spur him into action though and, spitting curses under his breath, he opts for dropping the towel in favour of getting as many articles of clothing on his body as possible. He manages to at least get his boxers on and pull his open pants over his ass, viscerally aware of the sidelong looks V shoots him like he thinks he's being stealthy. _Asshole._ They are going to have words about this.

Later, though, because Nico sounds like she’s made her way to the driver's side and Nero is not getting caught sporting the most unexpected erection of his life. With his towel tossed over his shoulder and his shirt crumpled in his hand he shoots V a final, dirty look before he locks himself in the van's bathroom with a satisfying _click_. Outside, he can hear Nico exchanging pleasantries with V, their voices muffled through the door, but it's hard to focus on them when his cock aches full and heavy between his legs, apparently not all all put out by almost getting caught. There’s nothing he can do about it now though, not when Nico and V are mere feet from the cubicle he’s shut himself in. No matter how quiet he was they’d both know, somehow, because they’re worse than a Fury on the hunt when they smell a soft spot to exploit. 

The thought of V shooting him a knowing look, a little sidelong glance with that faint smile of his, only makes his cock leak, damp in his boxers, and Nero bites back a groan as he presses the heel of his hand against it. His devil is awake now, a writhing mess of desire in his veins, demanding more, always more. And fuck he wants to, wants to grab V’s chin and make him look at Nero like that again, wants to press one of V’s hands to his piercing while he drags the other one beneath the elastic of his boxers and -- 

Nero yelps and bangs his head against the wall when the van lurches beneath his feet, Nico’s belated “Buckle up back there!” not near enough warning. He curses, loud enough that he’s sure she hears, and swears he hears her laugh as the engine roars around him. Jerking off in the bathroom? _Definitely_ not an option now that Nico’s behind the wheel. Cursing his luck and his driver and the stupid tattooed mystery man, he braces himself against the door and resigns himself to waiting his erection out. 

He has a feeling this is going to be a very long day.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the degenerates of the Spardacest discord who encourage me daily to keep on sinning. <333 Also did I just use William Blake's "The Tyger" in a smut fic? You betcha I did. ;D Title is a line from Felix Cartal & Light's "Love Me." 
> 
> This was meant to be for NeroV week but uh guess who... missed that... oops. Enjoy the late entry?? Thank you Originblue for giving it a proofread before I posted it!


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